


How a Heart Breaks

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Brotherly Love, Depression, Homelessness, Hospitals, Incest, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Teen Pregnancy, Whump, how the fuck do i keep forgetting these tags, kinda happy end?, look im srry ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:28:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: The homeless life is unkind to Stanley and Stanford, but it's Stanley who loses the most.TW: miscarriage





	How a Heart Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't imagine a teen-parent Stan, so. Here is a miscarriage fic no one asked for. I can't do unhappy ends so I tried to end on a bitter-sweet note.

Ford had never expected to be homeless. It was not something he had planned for, but he still finds himself curled uncomfortably around Stan in the El Diablo. He is wracked with despair when he looks down at Stan’s filthy hair and round stomach, Stan’s back pressed into the door and the backseat while Ford contorts half on the seat and half on the floor. On the night Ford finds his skin rubbing into the carpeting of the car’s floor, he thinks: if Ford hadn’t been so naive, so impulsive. If Stan could have controlled himself. But, the sun is rising and the cops will be coming around to run off vagrants and, well, that’s what they are, now.        

            Ford gently disentangles himself from Stan’s embrace and crawls into the front seat. He starts the car and drives aimlessly, looking for a cheap diner (the kind of diner their father would have scoffed at). The two of them could split a meager breakfast and wash up in the bathroom (A “whore’s bath” Stan had called it.). It was humiliating and Ford felt helplessness pull his face down, but he shakes it off as a sketchy-looking 24-hour place appears to the right.

            Stan has groggily begun to wake. He carefully sits up, grimacing at the uncomfortable sleep and the extra weight around his middle. He rubs at his eyes and Ford is struck with just how much he loves his brother. When Stan meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, Ford smiles at him. Stan grins sleepily back.

            “Br’kfast?” Stan slurs and Ford rolls his eyes. He parks and gets out to help Stan. Stan grumbles and swats at his brother but accepts the help anyway. They make their way into the diner and find a cracked and disgusting booth that doesn’t faze Stan in the slightest. A bored and exhausted waitress brings them coffee and water. The water tastes like chlorine and the coffee is thin and burnt. Stan chugs the coffee, Ford follows suit. They look over the menu tensely. Ford couldn’t grab much before their unexpected expulsion and they barely have enough to feed themselves and the El Diablo. Plus, the, uh, third party in their little family of transients.

            It’s not enough to be young and homeless. It’s not enough to be scared and vulnerable. Because Stan is pregnant and becoming more noticeably so. Stan says he doesn’t mind and loves to crack wise about his little freeloader. He jokes about how easy it’ll be to con people with a cute, little baby to distract the rubes. But Ford knows better. He sees the looks his brother gets--young and dirty and pregnant and  _male_. It’s like a neon sign: “knocked up omega!” And it makes Ford nervous to watch those hateful, pitying, hungry eyes. Ford knows Stan is his. After all, that’s  _his_  baby Stan is carrying (and sometimes, between the fierce, animalistic pride, Ford feels horrified at what he’s done).

            While Ford has been spiraling into his own head, Stan has placed their order. Ford is relieved to have that choice taken from him. Stan gives him a moment to come back to reality before reaching out and taking one of Ford’s hands in his own. Ford’s six fingers easily surround Stan’s five. It’s perfect--they were made for each other and Ford will never let anyone else have this.

            “It’ll be okay, Sixer.” Stan soothes even as Ford slouches forward and shakes his head. And this, this is another thing. Stan is strong. Stan has never, not in the weeks they have been on the streets, panicked. It’s been Ford, the alpha, who should be stronger than this, who has panicked and despaired. Stan has pulled him back from the edge more times than Ford can count--Stan touching his cheek gently, grabbing Ford’s hand to place it on Stan’s round belly. Stan protecting Ford even when it’s Ford’s turn to be strong. Ford takes a deep breath and nods. Stan beams at him and Ford smiles shyly back.

            They sit in companionable silence, hands clasped loosely on the table. The waitress returns with their meal and spares a glance at their hands. Ford moves to retract his, but Stan grips it tight and bears his teeth in a smile at the woman. She rolls her eyes and leaves, unimpressed. Ford glares at Stan, who finally let’s go to divvy up the food.

            Between them, they have a fried egg, a biscuit, and two slices of bacon. Ford grimaces, but accepts it. Ford frowns further when he realizes that Stan is giving him the half of the egg, half of the biscuit (which split unevenly and Stan gives him the larger piece), and a slice of bacon.

            “Stanley, we’ve talked about this.” Ford threatens and Stan rolls his eyes, already chewing on the bacon.

            “Yeah, and I still call bullshit. We split, fifty/fifty.” Stan is chewing the bacon like chaw, trying to savor every masticated piece. Ford glowers and shoves his half of the egg to Stan’s side of the plate.

            “You are literally eating for two and, while we obviously don’t have access to the proper nutrients or care, I will not let you starve our child.” Ford’s voice drops very low at the end, private and menacing. Stan shivers and places a subconscious hand on his stomach. Ford glances at the egg, back at Stan, and raises an eyebrow. Stan sighs, but swallows his bacon paste and morosely tucks into the egg. Ford, pleased with his ability to cow Stan into rational behavior, contentedly eats his own portion of biscuit and bacon. He finishes first and chases the remaining hunger with more coffee. He pours as much sugar as he can stand into the coffee, hoping the caloric content of the sucrose will tide him over. Stan stares at him with horror.

            “Don’t judge me for how I take my coffee, Stan. You eat toffee peanuts!” Ford glares, flushing a bit. Stan shakes his head and makes to stand.

            “You’re weird, Sixer. I’m hitting the can.” Stan grumbles. Ford watches him go until he disappears. Ford stares at the table top, trying to think of a way to provide for his...family. They were running out of funds and needed some income. Stan’s “secret” pickpocketing wouldn’t last and, eventually, people would notice the pregnant omega bumping into them and making them poorer. Ford could try to get a job, but it was hard to convince anyone that he was worth hiring when he looked and smelled homeless. And then the...baby. Ford knows that they can’t keep it. Either child services will take it or the street. Ford can’t tell Stanley. The baby is the reason they’re homeless and if Stanley loses that then it’s all been for nothing. Ford groans and lets his head fall on the table. He hears Stan shuffle up and Ford wearily turns his head and freezes.

            Stan is pale and terrified.

            “Something’s wrong.” Stan says. He’s hugging himself and staring, eyes far too wide. Ford looks him over and sees the blood between his legs and pales, himself. He thinks fast, mind in overdrive. He springs around the shell-shocked Stan and right up to the bored waitress.

            “Where’s the nearest hospital?” He demands, near snarls, and the waitress jumps. She looks over at him, then at his trembling brother.

            “Down main, past fifth. Turn left. Follow the signs.” She says rapidly and Ford runs over to Stan and pulls him back to the car. Stan is full-on shaking. Ford is, too, and fumbles the keys, dropping them twice. He squeals out of the parking lot and nearly hits another car. Headless, Ford drives far too fast and barely remembers getting to the hospital or dragging the hyperventilating Stan into the emergency room and screaming for help. He barely remembers being pried from his brother’s side. He remembers Stanley’s panicked shout of: “Ford!” and then the discombobulating stillness of the waiting room. A nurse brings him a glass of water and guides him to sit. Ford does, numbly, staring at the floor.

            He waits hours. He knows this because the night shift changes out for the fresher dayshift, who start flagging in turn. Ford doesn’t move, just waits and tries not to think of the worst-case scenario. Reproductive medicine has advanced in recent years--people don’t die in labor all that often, right? He can’t remember. He tries not to think about the baby--holy, Moses, the baby. Stan’s baby, his baby-- _their baby_. (It will all be for nothing, he thinks, briefly, like a flash of eye shine in a cat’s eyes.)

Eventually a pair of dress shoes appear before him and Ford looks up dumbly.

            The doctor is an older man, balding and woefully cliché. He looks haggard and grim. Ford pales and prepares for the worst.

            “Your brother is stabilized.” The man begins and Ford feels half of the tension flee his body. “However, the child didn’t make it.” He continues. Ford nods. He knew this was coming. The probability of a malnourished, stressed,  _male_  omega successfully giving birth without proper medical care was astronomically low. He had always known this. Still, he feels the grief vaguely and knows that he is in shock. “The procedure was a success, but, your brother will no longer be able to carry a viable fetus to term--there was too much damage to the organs.” He continues and Ford’s heart breaks for his bright, loving Stanley. “Besides that, your brother will make a full recovery and should be able to leave later tonight.”

             “C-can I see him?” Ford asks, voice quiet and broken. The doctor looks him over and nods. He gestures for Ford to follow him back to Stan’s room. They stop outside door B34.

            “He’s in here. Be quiet, he’s still recovering from the anesthesia.” The doctor says and turns to leave, but pauses. “I assume you will be the one to inform the alpha involved?” He states the question blandly and Ford knows that the doctor is only asking to be polite—no pregnant omega ends up homeless if they had and alpha that cared. Except for Stan.

            “That...I’ll take care of it.” He says, nodding numbly. The doctor hums and leaves. Ford takes a deep breath and enters the room. It’s dimmed in deference to the patient resting inside. Ford is surprised that Stan is the only patient in the room made for four, but is grateful, nonetheless.

            “Stan?” He asks, softly. He steps lightly even though he wants to grab Stan and never let go, damn the consequences. There is no response and Ford hopes Stan is still asleep, that his brother can have a little more time before his heart breaks. After a long silence Stan releases a long, shuddering sigh and Ford swears to himself. He walks to his brother’s side and grasps at Stan’s hands. He hits an IV and Stan doesn’t even flinch. Ford mumbles an apology anyway. Stan takes another shuddery breath and doesn’t open his eyes.

            “Stanley, please.” Ford doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but he needs to. He can almost see Stan’s eyes flicker under his thin eyelids. Eventually, Stan opens his eyes and he is still very, very drugged.

            “Sixer?” He murmurs like he’s afraid Ford will disappear. Stan’s face is groggy and hurt and too open. Ford’s heart breaks again (he wonders, distantly, how many times a heart can break) and he can’t breathe with the pure agony Stan exudes from every pore. Ford squeezes Stan’s hand harder. Stan’s eyes start to water. “I--I couldn’t. F-ford. S-s-she’s.” Stan is breathing too hard and his face is wet and Ford just tries to hold his brother together by gripping his hands. “F-ford!” And Stan is sobbing. Ford releases Stan’s hands to wrap them gently around Stan’s neck, bumping his forehead against Stan’s. “I-I-I’m so s-sorry!” Stan is stuttering and sobbing and Ford needs this to stop but he needs to take care of his brother, needs to make the thing that’s hurting Stan  _gone_. Ford takes a deep breath to ground himself, but--” Ford, f-fuck. Ford, they--I c-can’t. Ford.” Stan stills and Ford feels so, so cold because Stan should never be... _this_. When he looks at his little brother, Stan is empty. His face is slack and his eyes are hollow.

            “Stanley?” Ford asks as softly as he can. Stan barely moves.

            “Ford.” Is the only thing Stan can say and Ford forces his way into the hospital bed. It’s weird and awkward, between the catheters and IV drips. Ford curls around his brother like the world’s least useful armadillo. Still.

            “I’m here, I’m here.” Ford tries to soothe Stan, carding his fingers between his twin’s thick, brown hair. Stan just cries harder.

            “‘S all gon’.” Stan slurs between the sobs.

            “Stan?” Ford presses, gently.

            “I jus’ wan’ fam’ly.” Stan slurs between tears and Ford nearly breaks. Instead, he grits his teeth. “She’s dead.” Stan says and Ford just dies.

            “Stan, no.” Ford tries but Stan goes still, eyes hollowing out, again.

            “She's gone, Stanford.” Stan’s voice is flat. Ford can do nothing but cling as hard as he can.

            “I'm sorry, Stan.” Ford says and feels so inadequate. Stan should never feel this small, this hurt. Ford should be better--should be enough to fix this.

            “Why'd this happen, Ford? What did I do wrong?” Stan’s voice is starting to hitch again. Ford sighs and Stan shoves his face into Ford's neck as he begins to cry again.

            “Oh, Stan. You didn't do anything wrong. The situation just, it was just statistically unfeasible that the fetus would have survived.” Ford says gently. Stan stiffens and pulls back, looking at Ford with an expression of bewildered shock and hurt.

            “She.” Stan says. Ford's brow furrows but nods. “You...did you…” Stan takes a deep breath and is painful, uncharacteristically serious. “Did you even want her, Sandford?” It's Ford's turn to recoil in shock. He thinks fast but he takes too long and Stan’s face twists and darkens. “Get out.” Stan releases Ford and when Ford doesn't move Stan snarls and shoves him to the floor. “Get out!” Stan shouts, rushing to forcibly eject Ford if need be but Stan gets tangled on the tubing and wrenches an electrode from his chest and an IV from his arms. Ford scrambles away, pulling the cords further. Stan is shouting nonsense, either from hysteria, pain, or delirium. Ford struggles up, leaning heavily on the walls. A nurse rushes in, drawn by the distressed shout and the erratic beeping of the heart monitor. She shoos Ford from the room and he stands dumbly by the shut door, just listening to Stan rage brokenly on the other side while the nurse tries to soothe him and a few more nurses walk briskly to B34.

            Eventually, Ford's feet take him back to the waiting room. He goes to the front desk and asks after a payphone. There's one near the cafeteria, about a two-minute walk. He takes the time during the walk to reflect.

            He regrets the death of his...their...daughter. A large part of Ford wanted to see his progeny thrive, wanted to know that he _made_ that with Stan.  But, he was too much a scientist to not understand the complications. Stan and himself shared too much genetic information, any viable fetus had the chance to be malformed. Ford looked grimly at his own deformity.

            It was, perhaps, for the best that the child never lived at all.

            Ford reached the payphone and fished out their meager funds--what would they do about the hospital bill? Could Stan even walk, let alone skip out on the bill? Ford inserted the coin and shakily dialed the number.

            “Pines Psychic Hotline, what’ya want?” His mother's voice drawled boredly and he could almost smell the cigarette she doubtlessly had between her painted fingers. “I don't got all day, buddy.” She snaps and Ford subconsciously straightens.

            “Mom?” He asks even though he knows his mother's voice like breathing. She gasps, all pretense lost.

            “Stanford? Wait, call the house phone! You're getting charged. Wait, I'll call you.” She rushes and Ford can't get a word in edgewise before the dial tone sounds. He hangs up the payphone that begins to ring immediately. He picks it back up  

            “Stanford?” His mother sounds so hopeful.

            “It's me, mom.” He says, just the ghost of a watery smile.

            “Oh, thank Moses! Stanford I've been worried sick! Are you alright? Are you eating? Oh, poor Stanley, is he okay?” She rushes and Ford can feel the tears he hasn't shed yet gather at his eyes. Not just for his lost daughter but the hunger, the fear, the overwhelming sadness. For Stan’s broken heart. Ford chokes and then he’s crying.

            “M-mom.” He says again and his mother sharpens.

            “Stanford, what happened?” Her sharp voice grounds him and Ford takes a shuddering breath.

            “It's Stan.” His mother gasps.

            “Oh,  _no_.  _No_. The baby?” His mother sounds shaken. Ford shakes his head, realizes that she can’t see him.

            “She didn't make it.” And finally, Ford breaks down and sobs for everything--the weeks of homelessness, his broken brother, his own grief. His mother is saying something but he can't hear her. It must be minutes before he's gasping dryly, his face itches with dried tears and he can't breathe through the mucus in his nose.

            “Stanford.” His mother is both firm and gentle. “Stanford, where are you?”

            “Hospital. Redburg.” He says, still trying to breathe, and his mother makes an affirmative noise. “He hates me.” Ford adds, miserably.

            “No, he doesn't, Ford. He's hurting bad.” His mother's voice is so comforting. “I'll be there soon. What's the name of the hospital?” He tells her and hangs up. He goes to the cafeteria and gets a cup of coffee. It's far too strong and he hates it, but he feels so cold and so very tired. He wanders back to Stan’s room. He faces the door and knocks, softly. He hears nothing and slowly opens the door.

            “Stan?” Ford calls softly. The dim room is silent save for Stan’s breathing. “Stan, can I come in?” He doesn't get a response so he slips in and gently closes the door. He walks quietly closer. Stan’s breathing is slow and steady. A nurse appears from the hallway, the door creaks ominously and Ford worries that Stan will wake from his stupor, but he does not.

            “Ah, you're the young man from earlier, yes? His brother?” She has an off accent. Possibly Russian. Probably left over from the war.

            “Ah, yes.” Ford says nervously. He hides his hands behind his back. She makes a clicking sound.

            “He was quite upset. Understandable in his condition.” She looks at suspiciously. “He was given a very mild sedative to calm him down, we do not wish to overtax his system nor interfere with the medication already in his body.” Ford nods. She softens just a bit, looking at Stan with a quiet sadness. “When he wakes up, he will most likely be confused. Be patient with him and do not upset him.” She adds the last part pointedly. Ford bristles.

            “I understand.” He says a bit testily. She gives him another significant look.

            “I will return in an hour.” She says and leaves. Ford finds a chair in the corner and tries to drag it silently to his brother’s bedside. It screeches once against the linoleum. He sees Stan twitch and Ford flinches. When he settles next to Stan, his brother’s eyes are cracked open but glazed. Ford tentatively grasps his brother’s hand. Stan squeezes back weakly.

            “How are you feeling?” Ford whispers and Stan stares at nothing before slowly dragging his gaze to meet his brother’s.

            “Sh’t.” Stan slurs and Ford smiles weakly.

            “I know. I'm sorry.” Ford whispers and runs his thumb over Stan’s knuckles.

            “I l’ke th’ name Goldie.” Stan mumbles and Ford's throat tightens.

“Goldie is a lovely name.” Ford says. He’s lying.

            “S'took it all out.” Stan frowns, eyes nearly tearing but he is too exhausted and numb. “Can't...not...no more.”

            “I’m so sorry, Stan.” Ford kisses his brother’s hand. Stan looks so lost and resigned. Ford brings his free hand to brush through Stan’s filthy hair.

            “No more kids, Ford.” Stan whispers. Ford sucks in a breath sharply--he knew, but, it still hurts to hear. “I can't.” Stan sighs and tucks his face into the mattress. Ford feels his heart sink into the floor. Stan looks at him with miserable realization. “Yer gon find som’ne else.” Ford freezes and feels something like righteous fury. He grabs Stan’s hand too tightly.

            “No one else, Stanley.” He says, low and quiet, an edge of viciousness. A look of fear flashes though Stan’s muddled gaze. Ford sags and caress the hand he was squeezing in apology. Stan still looks to confused and sad. “Oh, Stan.” Resumes stroking Stan’s hair, unable to say anything right.

            Ford feels a deep, profound sadness at their loss--the future children he will never know. But, mostly, he breaks for poor Stanley, who values his family above everything else. Who, even homeless and penniless, continued to love his unborn daughter, who never lost hope.

            They sit in heavy, grieving silence until a light knock sounds at the door before it creaks open. Stan barely moves, so it's Ford who sees his disheveled mother walk in, both hands gripping her purse tightly.  She sees Ford and drops the purse while rushing to her sons. She pulls Ford into a fierce hug and Ford feels her red nails dig into his shoulders. He barely flinches and hugs her back just as hard. When she releases him, Ford steps aside so she can see Stan. She just stares at him for a moment, face broken, until Stan reaches a tired, drugged hand toward her.

            “Ma?” Stan’s voice sounds so young and small. Their mother chokes back a sob and grabs Stan’s face in both hands. She kisses his forehead, murmuring too softly for Ford to hear, while Stan latches onto her wrists and begins to sob again. It's too much for Ford and he flees. He should pee anyways.

            Ford grabs coffee for his mother. He's almost out of money. He slowly walks back, head bowed. He enters the room, still dim and thick with misery. His mother has situated herself so that Stan’s head rests on her lap. She is humming an old song while he sniffles. Ford places the cup of coffee on a flimsy table by the bed. His mother smiles tightly at him and beckons him over.

            “The nurse says that Stan should be able to leave by tonight.” His mother begins. Ford feels the heavy mantle of helplessness settle on his shoulders. His mother must see it because she sighs and grabs one of Stanford’s hands while the other still cards though Stan’s hair. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m gonna take care of you.” She says so gently and Stan whines in her lap and Ford just bends forward and tries not to cry. She lets them shudder in relief for a minute or two. “Now, I need you boys to be brave, okay? Because I need to go home and get some things ready.” Things, she doesn’t say, like their father. Ford’s body clenches against another sob. She gently moves from under Stan’s head and slips a pillow beneath it instead. Stan whines like he’s wounded. Ford’s mother turns and kisses his forehead, smiling softly. “You boys come home when you’re ready, okay? Don’t worry about the bill.” Her face twists for a moment into something furious. “Your father can take care of that.” She mutters before sighing the wrath out of her body. Ford clears his throat.

            “I...I brought you coffee.” He voice is hoarse and his mother’s face melts just a bit more.

            “Oh, Stanford, you’re such a sweet boy.” She kisses him again and hesitantly leaves. Ford sits in the chair next to Stan and grabs his hand. Stan curls around it and they sit in contemplative silence.

 

-Thirty Years Later-

 

Stanley is running full tilt, and even at forty-something, he’s dodging nurses nimbly and Ford can barely keep up. There’s shouting and Stan screams:

            “There’s no time!”

Ford laughs, breathless--because he cannot breathe, he really needs to work on his cardio.

            Eventually Stan slams into the correct doorway after several false alarms.

            “Where are they?” He all but bellows until someone shushes him and he flushes bashfully, all but kicking the floor. Ford finally catches up and is panting behind him. He is ignored as Stan walks into the room, transfixed. He gravitates to the two wriggly bundles like a moon. “Holy Toledo.” He says, in awe. Ford walks behind his brother and places a bracing hand on his shoulder. “Sherm’s they’re beautiful.” Ford takes a moment to look at Stan and just wells with that known, familiar affection and protectiveness. Stan’s face is soft and years younger. He looks at the two, small twins like they are the most precious things in this universe.

            “Do you want to hold them?” The new mother asks, and Ford is embarrassed that he has forgotten her name.

            “Yes.” Stan whispers and gently takes both little creatures into his arms and just watches them. Ford squeezes Stan’s shoulder again. Stan leans into his touch, never taking his eyes away from the children. Ford looks at them--the little girl with big, bright eyes and the little boy who still squints against the light. “Look, Sixer, he takes after you.” Stan says, eyes flicking to the boy’s forehead. Ford chuckles when he sees a birthmark like a constellation.

            “What are their names?” Ford asks, because Stan is too smitten to focus on anything but these new creatures.

            “Mable and Mason.” Ford’s nephew says and Ford nods but Stan shakes his head and chuckles, finally snapping out of his love-struck daze.

            “Nah, this kid’s a Dipper.” Stan jostles Mason gently and the boy makes a sound of discontent. Sherman groans.

            “Stan, you can’t give him a bad nickname, he’s not even a day old.” Sherman walks forward, arms outstretched for the children. Stan backs away slightly, glaring playfully at his older brother.

            “Hey, my nicknames are awesome, right, Sixer?” Stan flashes a cheeky grin at Ford that makes his heart skip a beat no matter what.

            “Of course, Stan.” Stan is still backing away from a rapidly frustrated Sherman.

            “Not fair! You two are always ganging up on me!” Sherman growls and starts to advance more aggressively.

            “They’re twins! I’m a twin! I got dibs!” Stan turns and starts to jog away from Sherman, not leaving the room but going to the opposite corner as Sherman begins to jog after him. Soon, they are playing the most careful game of “tag” as Sherman tries to pry the twins from Stan and Stan tries to gently keep hold of them. Ford, not for the first time, feels a twinge of sadness as Stan desperately tries to hold on to the twins as long as possible.

            Children look good on Stan.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for coming along for the ride. I'm sad now.
> 
> Ending based on this comic. 
> 
> http://birbykind.tumblr.com/post/131893213509/put-me-to-rest
> 
> Edit: Changed some stuff around. Nothing ground breaking, just smoothin' it out.


End file.
